


Solitaire

by misaffection



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Rape Fantasy, solo sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She likes the angry sort of sex and a man who’ll take what he wants (set during Insiders)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitaire

It shouldn’t bother her. She _likes_ Daniel. She’s kissed Daniel.

 _“I didn’t even get to first base.”_

She touches her neck. There’s no bruise, barely even a mark, but she can still feel his hand there. She can still feel the rush – cold fear, hot spike of anger, burn of arousal – and she plays it over and over in her head.

She shouldn’t want to. She likes Daniel. But she also likes the angry sort of sex and a man who’ll take what he wants and _God_ , but those brown eyes had torn into her and made her knees weak.

It shouldn’t be what she wants, but she can’t help but wonder what it would have been like. She shuts herself in her room, light off, and thinks of his knuckles brushing her cheek and then of those long fingers somewhere _else_.

A groan escapes her and she leans against the cold door, trying to calm her heated skin. But memory plays it out again: the grip of his hand on her wrist, the frisson of frightened arousal as he spun her back against the table. She wets her lips at the recollection of him _there_ , close and dangerous, intent in his eyes and she knows if the camera hadn’t been on…

“Damn,” she says to the room and briefly wonders if there’s a way to disable the feed. She rather wants a second go at that conversation.

She pushes up from the door and heads to her bunk, stripping off her vest as she goes. It drops to the floor. She leaves it, hands already busy with her belt. Her eyes remain closed and she pulls the scene back, expands it into fantasy, imagining his fingers pulling down the zipper and sliding her pants over her hips.

The wool blanket itches at her back, but she’s already mapping familiar territory with her hands: the peaks of her breasts, the valley of her stomach, the soft mound at the apex of her legs and the gully of her sex. Her skin still tingles from the exposure to the naquadah in his blood, the slide of his touch on her cheek, the grip of his hand on her hip. How easily he could have forced the issue, forced her, but he didn’t.

She tries not to feel disappointment at that, but her throat feels tight. He _was_ being serious. He wanted her. And damn it all, but she wants him now.

Her knees fall apart on a frustrated sigh. She knows how to get to where she needs to be; has had far too much practise at it. She longs for someone else to touch her, to want her, to make her shiver. He had, he did, but circumstances are what they are and she can’t go back.

She isn’t surprised to find herself already wet. Her index finger circles her clit and the frissons start. Her body is ready to go and has been since he grabbed her. Wishing herself there and the cameras out of action, she fantasies how he’d have lifted her up and sat her on the table, how he’d have pushed her legs wide.

Other than the flare of anger that had made him grab her throat, he’d been gentler than she’d imagined. She thinks of that soft touch and slides a finger inside. Shudders and murmurs his name. Thankfully, there’s no microphone in here.

Adding a second finger, she wonders what the grey overall hides. The triangle of tanned chest teases at her imagination. Certainly there is a strength to him and she draws powerfully-built arms that same tawny shade and flex as he surges in.

A whimper echoes off the walls. She arches up and pushes in deeper, rubbing faster as she cups a breast with her other hand. Merciless with her nipple as she knows he would be: perfect white teeth hard on sensitive flesh. Desire scorches her skin and she needs more than just her fingers.

Her hand drops to her side and she hauls in a steadying breath, then sits and scrambles under the bed. The box is locked, but she has the key and fits it on the second attempt. Her hands are trembling with the desperate urge, the _need_ to come. Opening the box, her lips curve at the device.

Meant for torture, she’s long discovered that its painful pulses can be adapted for pleasure. She slides it onto her hand and lies back again, using the taint in her blood to activate the waves of energy. Sliding two fingers back into her sex, the stone sits directly over her clit and the pulses stimulate her to the edge of a climax.

Her mind folds back to the room and the table under her ass. She is gazing into his eyes, feeling the dichotomy of fear and arousal. Older memories rise and she admits that her comment about sparks hadn’t been that off, really. The host body is attractive, because they always are. That was, after all, why hers had been chosen and clearly that had worked as far as he was concerned.

Energy slices into her, throbbing up her spine and making the bones tremble. She’s so damn close. Thrusting harder, she paints an image on the inside of her eyelids: her hands on the table top, arched as she tries to dig her nails in; his hands gripping her hips as he slams in hard and merciless; the violent bounce of her breasts as each thrust shakes her body.

Her back arches and she cries out. Wave after wave floods over her, the walls of her sex tight around her fingers as she shudders over the line. A random thought shuts off the ribbon device. The sudden drop of stimulus makes her sag, limbs limp and heavy. Pleasure ebbs. Leaves her hollowed out and raw.

That, she thinks, is exactly how it would be with him. At least in the solitary darkness, she still has her pride. Even if his name _is_ the last thing from her lips before sleep claims her.


End file.
